Reverse Metamorphosis
Book One
Of The Trilogy
Irrevocable Change
The Evolution of an Assassin
A Novel by
R.E. Schobernd
Cover art by Katrina Joyner
Published by R.E. Schobernd at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by R.E. Schobernd
Other Novels by the Author
In the Irrevocable Change trilogy
Book Two
The Assassin Evolves
Book Three
The Devils Homecoming
Preface
The normal order of metamorphosis is for some ugly life forms at creation to develop into a creature of wonder and beauty. The caterpillar crawling along a tree branch before a beautiful butterfly emerges, floating and rising in the slightest breeze is the most recognized of these transformations.
By contrast, human beings are born beautiful of body and innocent of mind, but can be subject to reverse metamorphosis into creatures of ugliness. These changes are not part of the natural process of evolution which is destined to occur, but happen due to choices made by each individual. Social and environmental pressures influence these changes, but ultimately the responsibility rests with the mind and soul of the person bending to and adjusting to the pressures and circumstances around them.
Clayton Lewis Albrecht is one such reverse metamorphic being.
Chapter 1
Later he would wish he had driven straight home. Instead, at a small town just south of the Wisconsin state line he exited the highway. Several bars there competed for the drinking trade. The one he randomly picked sat beneath a gaudy, flashing neon sign taller than the single story brick front roadhouse. Only half a dozen parking spots remained at the back of the gravel lot. Most of those were up against a line of weeds and hedge trees bordering an adjacent field. The musky smell of freshly turned earth mingled pleasantly with the aroma of fried food and stale beer coming from the exhaust fans. The temperature was in the mid fifties; typical for Chicago in late spring.
At the entrance he got carded and paid the three dollar cover charge. Weaving through the crowd he inched his way to the bar. The single room was packed. The lucky patrons sat at tables surrounding a hardwood dance floor. Bodies were jammed together doing at least six different dance steps no matter how the music tempo changed. The music was loud, but good for a local group. He raised his hand until one of the bartenders caught sight of him through the low hanging smoke cloud. In a few minutes an older guy slid off his high seat and headed toward the door.
After beating two other men to the bar stool he settled in. He looked in the back mirror to see who was bellied up to the bar. On his left he watched and listened to a couple arguing loudly. He took note of the girl sitting next to him. She saw him watching her and smiled. Several minutes later the guy she had been arguing with got up and walked away. The busty red head turned toward him, introduced herself, started a conversation. She was about nineteen or twenty going on thirty. Already there was a tough bar room look about her; not unattractive, but too rough and knowing for her age. The thin rayon blouse she wore let her breast show through nicely, promising bigger rewards behind the fabric. She was underage to be there, but he'd experienced the same problem only months earlier before turning twenty one.
They had been talking a few minutes when someone behind him yelled loudly; a hard punch landed on his back throwing him against the bar. As he got turned around, under more blows, the drunken boyfriend was yelling about Clay hitting on his girlfriend. He slid off the bar stool as he pushed the guy away. A bartender must have signaled the bouncers. Shortly after his feet hit the wood floor he landed a right upside boyfriend’s head before a left to the man's gut. By then the drunk was under the control of two bouncers who manhandled him toward the door.
A big, bald, muscular bouncer was in front of Clay getting his attention. “I know the other guy started it. If you want to sit back down you can stay. Otherwise, out you go. The two of you can continue the fight outside while I call the Sherriff. What’ll it be?”
“No problem, I didn’t come here to fight, so it’s over. Thanks.”
When he was seated again the girl touched his arm, "I'm sorry. I had heard Cleve could be a real idiot when he drinks too much. I won't be going out with him again." She didn’t make a move to leave.
"It's not your fault and it's done with." Clay laughed and continued, "He's too drunk to throw a decent punch anyway." She smiled as she continued their conversation.
He ordered fresh drinks while thinking things were finally going his way for the first time that night. With any luck he might have her in a motel room later. After the drinks were paid for he excused himself to go to the john; walking off through the mass of mostly young people.
When he returned the stool next to his was empty, but the girl’s drink was still on the bar. Looking out over the dance floor he spotted her dancing with an older guy, nearly thirty or so. When the band took a break she and her partner came back to the bar. She sat with her back to Clay talking to the new love of her life. Having crashed into burning debris for the second time in one evening he decided to finish his beer and head home.
Finally he was outside in the fresh air where he breathed deeply to clear his lungs. He walked around the corner of the building to head back toward his car. By then the lot was completely full with cars and trucks crammed into every possible spot. At least thirty were parked out along the highway on both shoulders.
He was cutting through the rows of cars to the back, but was still far to the left of his car. Behind him to his left there was the sound of someone running in the gravel. Someone was closing in on him fast. He turned his upper body to see what was going down and saw a blurred motion up close. Instinctively he raised his left arm while twisting and moving his head to the right.
A slightly built figure of medium height had his right arm raised with a large object in his hand. Getting his arm up probably saved his life as a brick careened down with momentum, scraping his left ribcage. During the twisting, dodging gyrations his feet got tangled together. He lost his footing in the gravel, falling against the side of a car on his right rib cage. His upper right arm extended over and onto the trunk as he tried to right himself.
The assailant didn’t fare any better. He too was trying to regain his balance and get his bearings. Clay recognized the attacker as the loud-mouthed drunk who had hit him in the back earlier. The thought of the two attacks pissed him off. An emotional defense mechanism gave him the strength to launch himself at the aggressor. The assailant still had the brick in his hand when Clay landed three good punches to the head before kneeing him in the groin. Clay knew it was a good blow when his assailant’s legs went together, bending slightly at the knees as he groaned.
They were at the rear ends of two cars where the drunk was slowly bending over toward him. The man's left hand was grasping for something to hang on to. Slowly he continued to slide down the side of the car. While Clay debated whether to hit him again the attacker’s knee touched the ground. It gave him enough stability to swing the brick in his right hand at Clay’s knees. Clay jumped back. The assailant held the brick extended at arm's length, poised for another attack. Clay grabbed the end of the man’s outstretched arm and flung the hand holding the brick toward the man’s head with all his strength. The corner of the brick struck the right side of the head pushing it against the cars fender. A dull, sickening thud was heard when his skull made contact with the Buick’s fender. The metal was molded to receive the taillight and had no give to it. The strangers head absorbed the entire force of the brick. The attacker collapsed onto the gravel with blood flowing from his crushed skull.
Clay grabbed the man’s outstretched wrist to feel for a pulse. None! Standing up quickly he looked toward the back of the bar. No one was in the back lot. He didn’t know whether to go back to the bar to report what had happened or run. Hastily he decided to avoid trouble by quietly leaving. If the Sherriff was called he could be there for hours. He might even be locked up overnight.
Grabbing the man by both ankles he dragged the body down the line of cars. It was dropped behind two cars he found backed into their parking spots. With the body concealed in the weeds at the fence he looked again for anyone in sight. Back at the scene of the fight he kicked gravel over the blood spot on the ground. Then he searched in the faint light for small dribbles left while the body was being moved.
His car was about eighty feet away as he hurried down the line of cars. Some inner voice told him to stay in the shadows under tree limbs. The music was loud in the background; he was surprised he didn’t remember hearing it during the fight.
As he got in the car he noticed his hands were shaking and his chest was pounding. Slowly he backed out of the parking spot before driving toward the exit as normally as possible. He resisted the urge to spin the tires to get away quickly. Four people were near the front of the bar talking before heading for their cars. He doubted they noticed him or would remember his car.
He drove out onto the feeder highway, then up to the freeway. His heart was still pounding. Fear was causing him to breathe fast and deep. He was exhilarated knowing the man had attacked him twice from behind yet he had survived. The bastard got what was coming to him. I’ll teach him to fuck with me, he thought. His hands felt cold and clammy; he began to shake. He’d killed a man! He didn’t even know the bastard. Oh God! What if somebody saw him and got his description and license number? Did he leave fingerprints on either of the cars they were between? His breathing had slowed, but he was shaking uncontrollably.
Cautiously he pulled the car to the side of the freeway and parked. Sitting inside the car he hung his head, crying uncontrollably. The let down from the adrenaline rush coupled with the realization of what the consequences could be caused the trembling and sobbing to continue for several intense minutes. There was an image in his mind of the dead man lying in the gravel with blood running from his head. The thought gave him a sick feeling and he began to get the dry heaves.
Leaving the car he moved to the right rear fender, bent over, and began to vomit. Deep spasms originated in his bowels working up his torso to end at his jaws. Never had he imagined being so scared. All because of some damn drunk he didn’t even know.
He knew several people who claimed to have killed others, but it had never happened to him! Not until now.
As soon as his emotions were under control he got back in the car to finish the drive home. Downstairs in his room he took a shower before crawling into bed. It was after one o’clock but he couldn’t sleep. The initial shock had worn off. It was replaced by the process of accepting what had happened. His main concern was he could be identified. If his first move after the attack had been to get help there most likely wouldn’t be any problem. Instead he chose to hide the body as if he had done something wrong. He'd have to live with the results of his actions. It was too late to go back. Too late to explain he only defended himself and panicked when the man died. Finally, as the sun was rising, he drifted into an uneven sleep.
Just before eleven he awoke. Sitting on the bed he stretched, then washed, shaved, and got dressed. His right rib cage was sore and slightly bruised where he had fallen against the car fender. It was proof of what he wished was a nightmare was in fact reality. His initial thought was, Clayton Lewis Albrecht you really stepped in it this time.
While eating a sandwich he scanned through the morning paper. There was no report of any incident at the bar. Of course, even if the body had been found it was probably too late to make the morning edition.
His mother and stepfather were gone. If Lizzy, his younger sister, was home she had stayed in her room. He decided to see if his best friend Jimmy G. was hanging out at the bar run by Jimmy’s dad. Clay had learned much about the man from the stories Jimmy told him. The rest he got from listening as he hung out around the family and the men at the bar.
Chapter 2
Tony Giliano was a big man: six feet four inches tall, weighing two hundred sixty pounds. Big, but didn’t carry an ounce of fat. He was in his late forties with black wavy hair and appeared to have a permanent medium tan.
When Tony was seventeen his father died; he never learned the exact details of the death, but he'd heard rumors. His old man was a collector for a protection racket. People hinted he was caught skimming money for himself.
Near the middle of his senior year Tony fell in love with a tall, slender, olive skinned beauty who transferred to his school. She was the most beautiful girl Tony had ever seen; he was determined to claim her. Anna Viscalli was the daughter of John Viscalli. John was a mid level boss who had been recruited from outside the local family. Tony was a soldier for the family.
Tony and Anna were married in June. Their first son, John Anthony Giliano, was born November 30, 1942. Tony continued his enforcement work while working at a slaughter house. He settled into being a father and husband; with an occasional girlfriend on the side.
Slowly Tony learned the inner politics of gang life and found he could function well within those strict but often unspoken rules. Often he found himself discussing problems with Anna in bed before or after they made love. She was a good sounding board for his thoughts and ideas. Sometimes she offered some helpful insights of her own. His father-in-law was impressed as he noticed signs of leadership in his son-in-law. Soon other gang members were reporting to Tony.
Four years into their marriage Anna’s father staged a brutal take over by killing the gang's top family members. Tony played an important role in the assassinations and became a lieutenant under John.
The next fourteen years were good for Tony. He rose to be second in command by making himself a trusted and dependable supporter of his father in law. To show his gratitude John sponsored Tony for acceptance into Cosa Nostra as a made man in 1956.
In 1960 John Viscalli’s doctor informed him he had prostate cancer. Surgery was required to stop the spread of the disease. John decided he had enough money to retire from the business he had built. He and his wife could live the rest of his life between Chicago and Florida. He enjoyed fishing and playing golf and could grow old doing both. The gang would be passed to Tony, for a price of course.
With a reputation for being both tough and savvy Tony seldom had to really crack down on the people he dealt with. When someone challenged him a couple of weeks in the hospital would change their thinking. The ones who were dumber than dumb were found a few miles away, shot, beat to death, garroted, or they just disappeared. Either way they were no longer a problem.
Jimmy was like his old man in some ways. But he didn’t have the good looks or charisma or the bad temper. He was smart, tough, and determined; if he set his mind on a goal he made things happen until he got what he wanted. Jimmy had told Clay enough stories about his dad's business to know Tony was high up in the mob. He controlled all of the action in his area; drugs, prostitution, numbers, protection, and several legitimate businesses.
Tony hosted high stakes poker games above the bar every Wednesday night starting at five in the afternoon. Down the hallway from the game room were a bathroom, an office, and a bedroom Tony kept for his personal use. It was used quite often for Tony's tryst with casual girlfriends.
Although Tony had tried everything to encourage Jimmy to go to college it didn’t work. Jimmy had his own plans. He intended to wait a few years after graduation from high school, live on his own and pay his own way. Then he would work his way into Tony’s business after it was accepted he wasn’t going to college. He stayed on the fringe of Tony’s dealings but kept track of everything as it happened. They often talked in depth about what was changing, who was moving up in the organization and the like. Clay suspected Tony already knew what Jimmy had in mind and had already accepted it.
Chapter 3
After parking his car in the lot behind the bar Clay entered through the back door. It was Sunday afternoon and Jimmy and Tony were both there. Tony’s second in command, Joey Tadono, was there too. Joey wasn’t as big as his boss, but was every bit as tough. He was in charge of collecting from the illegal portions of Tony’s business; he also handled all of the muscle work.
The “Twelfth Street Saloon” was located at the corner of Twelfth and Gerson on the north west corner of the intersection. A long narrow two story brick building, it connected to others like it in one of the oldest parts of the city. Twelfth Street was lined with mostly red brick apartments or commercial buildings. Many of the original businesses had given way to pawn shops, tattoo parlors, pizza restaurants, record stores, and the like. Parallel parking on both sides of the one-way street left room for two narrow lanes of traffic.
Most days, except in the dead of winter, Tony and a contingent of his pal’s and associates could usually be found outside in front of the bar in the morning. In the afternoon they'd move to the shady side of the building.
Inside the place was dark and dingy with more than a few cobwebs in the corners. The flooring was three-inch wide bare oak board colored by tobacco spit, tracked in rainwater, and dirt. The once cream-colored plaster walls were brownish mustard yellow after the years of dense smoke emitted by cigarettes and cigars. Except for calendars and a few pictures of great Cubs baseball players the walls were mostly bare. A Wurlitzer jukebox with 45 RPM records sat in the back at the end of the oak booths on the Gerson Street wall. The ceiling was at least fourteen feet high and covered in the square pressed tin decorative panels popular at the turn of the century. The light fixtures with white globes hanging down were original as were the eight ceiling fans. The fans had the old flat circular motors with exposed windings inside the vented motor frames; they ran constantly summer or winter.
And then there was the BAR! What a bar! It was built of solid red oak with ornately carved trim and rounded corners. It covered thirty five feet of the inside wall and still had the original brass foot rail. The back bar was at least twelve feet high. Its six large sections of beveled plate mirror were set in between large tapered oak columns. On each end of the bar there were always one gallon jars of pickled pigs feet and pickled boiled eggs in purple brine. There was hardly any meat on the pig’s feet, mostly fat and bone, but the old guys would reach in with a long handled fork to pull out their catch and chew away. Monday through Saturday daily specials were served. Dishes like navy beans and ham with cornbread, beef stew or goulash were tasty, filling and cheap.
During the work week, Mickey, the day bartender, would be on his stool at the far end talking to the regulars seated around the bar. Since it was Sunday John was manning the bar. Jimmy G. was at the bar too so they talked awhile; mostly Jimmy talking about how sick the Cubs were playing and how they needed to trade up to some better players. They shot a couple of games of eight ball on the pool table toward the back of the room and talked about their siblings. Both had an older brother and sister. Jimmy’s brother, John Anthony had graduated from an Ivy League law school and his sister Adrianna was finishing a post grad degree in economics.
Even though they were best friends, Clay decided not to mention the problem he’d had the previous night. There would be plenty of times later when they were alone to discuss it. It sure felt good to be with his best friend to keep his mind occupied for a while.
Looking at their reflections in the back bar mirror Clay subconsciously compared the two of them. He was about twenty pounds lighter than Jimmy, weighing in at two hundred. They were both stocky with muscular frames thanks to their jobs and occasional sports. Jimmy was six feet two while he was six feet even. They were even similar in facial features although Jimmy had his mom’s darker Sicilian complexion.
Both of them were working full time as union laborers on construction, but on different jobs. Jimmy’s job was running behind schedule so the crew was working ten-hour shifts six days a week. They hadn’t seen much of each other the past week which was unusual. Jimmy remarked he'd been having some trouble at work with a loudmouth “Mick” from up on the North Side.
“You know me, Clay, I pretty much get along with everybody. But this guy has been going out of his way to be an asshole. We’ve had several minor run ins and then this moron tries to intimidate me in front of the other guys.”
“So what happened?”
“Yesterday he’d been putting the shit on for me all morning. During lunch break we got into it and I knocked him on his ass in front of the whole crew.”
Clay started laughing, “Damn it Jimmy, I leave you alone for a little while and look what happens. What am I going to do with you?”
They both laughed and Clay continued, “Do you think it’s over? Will he back off?”
“Yeah, it’s over. The guy hasn’t got the guts to push it; he’s just a loudmouth.”
They made their way back to the big round oak table with claw feet near the back wall. Tony and a couple of the Sunday regulars were playing a friendly game of poker. The games at this table were for the dollar a hand crowd and were mostly attended by men who liked the game, but didn’t have the money for the games held upstairs.
Clay hung around until five thirty before he left. Later he would cling to the memory of that casual afternoon conversation with Jimmy.
The next day he bought a morning paper on his way to work. An article reported the death of a patron of the bar he had stopped at the previous Saturday night. The account gave the man’s name and a short paragraph of the known details. It also stated the police had no suspects and no immediate leads. He read the notice for the man’s burial in the obituary section. His attacker was unmarried and had few close relatives. At the job site he tossed the paper in a trash container, brassed in for work, vowing to put the episode behind him.
Chapter 4
Nineteen days later on Friday June 12, 1970 shortly after six o’clock in the evening Clay received a phone call at home. A Giliano relative relayed shocking news; Jimmy had died late in the afternoon during an accident at work. Clay told his parents about the death before going directly to Tony’s house. It was the worst night of his life; worse even than his incident with the drunk just three weeks previously.
Tony owned a large three story yellow brick home with a red clay tile roof. Built in the thirties the house was in one of the best neighborhoods south west of Chicago. The house sat on an estate size lot with a tall wrought iron fence surrounding the entire three acres of beautifully manicured landscaping. A stone guardhouse behind the huge double entrance gate was manned to keep media and gawkers away. The circular driveway was full of cars when Clay arrived so he parked on the street and walked up the winding concrete drive to the house.
Losing his best friend was hard, but sharing the grief of his loss with Jimmy's parents was the most upsetting event of his young life. They had both always been like a second set of parents to him. From the time Jimmy and he had met they had been inseparable. Anna had treated Clay as if he was another son instead of just a friend. She bandaged their cuts and kissed their bruises and didn’t tell Tony about many of the things they did. Once again she was the strong one, consoling both Tony and Clay, even though he knew she had to be suffering even more than they were. Relatives of both parents were at the house; Clay knew he must have talked to most of them, but later didn’t remember much of what was said.
When Anna left the room Clay learned details of the accident. Jimmy’s crew was working on a multi story office building. The major erection of the walls and concrete floors was complete. The design called for a large open space in the center of the building in both the second and third floors. The open area between vertical columns on each floor would provide an unobstructed view of the first floor lobby area. The railings between the columns had not been installed. The openings were identified only by yellow caution tape. On the first floor at each of the four corners under the center opening large granite columns would be placed on raised concrete pedestals. Forms had been built where reinforcing rods stuck up out of the first floor and additional rebar was to be tied to them to strengthen the base under the stone columns. Jimmy had fallen from the third floor onto the vertical rebar and was impaled on them. His face had hit the edge of the wood form and his teeth and jaws were badly damaged. He was still alive when the emergency medical team arrived, but was in terrible agony while they attempted to free him. Due to the large number of steel reinforcing rods piercing his torso he died before he could be freed.
The obituary announcement was in the paper Saturday morning. A closed casket visitation at the funeral home was conducted Sunday afternoon and Monday evening. The funeral service was held the following Tuesday morning with a full Catholic Mass. Clay thought more people attended Jimmy’s funeral than any other in the history of the city. Tony’s peers in the mob all attended whether they liked each other or not and behaved themselves simply out of respect for Tony and Anna. Jimmy’s brother and sister had flown in for the funeral, but Clay didn’t get to speak to them at length, other than to give cursory condolences. John and his wife left as soon as the funeral was over, but Adrianna was planning to stay the rest of the week to visit with her parents. Clay observed she was certainly growing up and looking good.
After the funeral Clay planned to take at least a week off work. He wasn’t ready to be around people making stupid remarks while carrying on meaningless conversations.
With Jimmy G. gone forever a huge void was left in his life. Hardly a day had passed since they were seven years old when they hadn’t gotten together or at least talked on the phone. They had done so many things in unison Clay felt as if he had lost a physical part of himself with Jimmy’s death. It was unspoken, but understood by both, that if a problem of any magnitude arose the other would be there to provide backing and support. The bond between them was so strong both felt they knew exactly how the other would react in all situations. They had dated together for years, even sharing the same girl friends occasionally when one of them grew tired of a girl.
On Thursday evening, two days after the funeral, he was in the kitchen getting a Coke when the phone rang.
“Clay you have a phone call,” his mother said from the living room.
“O.K. mom, I’ll take it down in my room.”
“This is Clay.”
“Clay. This is Dave Ulcak.
“Dave! I haven’t seen you since graduation. What are you up to?”
“Well, I’m working construction. I’ve been an iron worker apprentice for the last year. In fact, I’m working the same job Jimmy Giliano was on when he died last week.”
“We were really tight. His accident sure knocked me for a loop.”
“Yeah I remember you two always running together. I also recall talk about his dad being connected to the mob. Is that right?”
“Tony probably has some ties. Why?” Clay had caught a note of apprehension in Dave’s voice and was curious.
“The day Jimmy G. fell I wanted to be alone after the job was shut down. Man, seeing him lying there with those re-bar poking up through him hit me hard. My crew had installed the steel he fell on. I wasn’t feeling like talking about it. I needed to get away from the rest of the crew to be alone. So instead of going to our regular bar after work I went to a little place over on Elliott Street. I got a beer and took a booth toward the back. As soon as I got settled in three other guys from the job walked in and sat at the bar. They were up near the entrance. A guy Jimmy had been having problems with, Jerry O’Neil, was drinking boilermakers. He was throwing them down one right after the other… Are you still there?”
“Yeah., Jimmy told me about a guy he was having problems with. Go on I’m listening.”
“Well, O’Neil is getting drunker, louder and nastier by the minute. He said ‘That damned Wop won’t be giving me any more trouble.’ He made obnoxious jokes about how Jimmy looked like a pin cushion and he hoped it hurt like hell. The two other guys with him aren’t on my good guys list either, but they had both listened to enough of his crap. They finished their beers, made excuses to leave and hauled their worthless asses out the door.
After they left O’Neil continued drinking. Suddenly to nobody in particular he said, ’Damn it the look he had when he went over the edge and realized I'd pushed him was great. I nailed him good and he knew it. He won’t fuck with me anymore.’
The bartender and the owner had heard enough and threw O’Neil out. I’m sure they didn’t know who got hurt and just didn’t want to be involved.”
Clay silently held the phone in disbelief until Dave again queried him, “Clay?”
“Yeah… Yeah, I’m still here. You’re real sure about what he said? You were close enough to hear it clearly?”
“After he was thrown out I moved to the bar and talked with the owner and the bartender. They heard the same thing I did. Look Clay, O’Neil is bad news. He’s tough and he’s mean. He’s too bad for me to mess with. But I always got along with Jimmy G. I thought maybe you could pass this information on to his dad. If he’s connected he’ll know how to settle the score.”
“I’ll take care of it Dave. Look if this guy is as tough as you say you should keep quiet about what you heard. Don’t go telling anybody else for your own sake. Can you tell me anything else about him?”
“He drives a late model black Chevy pick up and lives in Des Plains. I followed him home last night and got his address and the truck's license number."
“Great, give it to me. I’ll get the information to Jimmy’s dad. Thanks Dave; I owe you.”
For a brief instant Clay thought of going to the police with the information. He recalled the many times he had followed public trials in which he was sure the accused was guilty only to watch as a slick defense lawyer get him off. They'd appeal to the jury’s sense of uncertainty until the jurors were confused. Also, as soon as the arrest was made public, Tony would probably charge the police station to kill the bastard in his cell, even if he got killed in the process. Calling the police was out.
There was no one he could even call upon to discuss the problem. No one in his circle of acquaintances, other than Tony’s bunch, had ever killed anyone. At to his knowledge they hadn't. After his own involvement in an accidental death he knew firsthand what emotional trauma an average person would feel about killing someone; anyone. The only people Clay knew who were capable of killing someone like O’Neil were associates of Tony. They would have to inform Tony as soon as they learned the identity of Jimmy’s murderer. This O’Neil character apparently didn’t know about Tony’s connection or he was too arrogant to be concerned. But O’Neil would have to be dealt with and Tony was the logical person to handle it. He would talk to Tony and… Sitting on his bed, he was suddenly overcome with emotion and began to sob. How could he expect someone else to perform an act he was shirking His best friend had been killed by a coward and he was thinking of passing the problem to somebody else? What would Jimmy have done? If Clay had been killed would Jimmy have gone to Tony and said, Daddy, daddy, please fix this for me. Hell no he wouldn’t. He would have told Tony to stay out of his way while he took care of the asshole himself.
But Clay had never killed anyone. Not intentionally anyway. This wouldn’t be the same. This would be stone cold premeditated murder. There was no other way to think about it; it could get very ugly emotionally. But maybe a lone avenger would stand a better chance of extracting revenge.
Two days later he grew weary of trying to find excuses for not dealing with O’Neil directly and finally accepted the responsibility of handling it himself. The fact it was Jimmy’s killer made it his problem. He would do the job alone before telling Tony.
His first step was to create a plan. The method and location for the hit had to be determined. He would need to know where O'Neil hung out as well as his normal routes to and from work. He thought back to the times he and Jimmy had secretly listened in awe to the stories recounted by some of Tony’s acquaintances. As they drank heavily they swapped stories with each other and gruesome details were recounted. He had suspected Jimmy would someday use some fragments of the accounts they'd listened to after he took his place in the family business.
There was no reason for Clay to believe he would use the information. He had always managed to stay on the fringe of trouble. He had never been involved in any of the street gang action or committed any serious crime. On the few occasions he and Jimmy had been stopped and questioned by the local cops they had never even filled out a report of the incidents. Jimmy had purposely kept his record clean so when the time came for him to work under Tony he would be an unknown quantity to law enforcement. There'd be no history of criminal involvement other than the obvious ties to his immediate family.
The next morning Clay drove to the house Jimmy had been renting. He was positive Jimmy’s belongings wouldn’t be disposed of for at least a month. A key hanging on a nail under the wooden porch let him in the back door. Several guns were kept in a closet and the buddies had taken them target shooting many times. He was familiar with all of them. The .38 caliber Colt Cobra revolver and a twelve gauge Remington pump shotgun with a sawed off barrel were his final choices. The thought of using Jimmy’s guns to avenge the murder gave him a good feeling. It was like his friend was participating in extracting revenge against his killer. Along with the guns, he took a box of .38 cal. hollow point bullets and a box of five slugs for the shotgun. He checked out the basement and garage where a lot of miscellaneous items were stored. Some of the things he took note of were an assortment of fireworks, rope, wire, and hand tools.
It was still early when he drove to the address Dave had given him. The location was at the north east corner of Des Plains. The house was a four or five room single story bungalow with white aluminum siding and a small brick porch at the front door. A small single car detached garage was located on the right side behind the house with driveway access from the street. This was a working class neighborhood. It had been built in the twenty’s or thirty’s when poor people's houses were small. Some of the homes were well cared for, but others, like O’Neil’s, were run down and needed major repair. Clay guessed the house was rental property. The black pickup wasn't in sight. In another hour it would be supper time. Earlier he had passed a shopping mall about ten minutes away where he could spend a couple of hours and get something to eat.
At seven thirty, just before sunset, he drove back to O’Neil’s street. The black Chevy pick-up was parked in the drive way beside the porch. Driving on past he made a circle around the block and came by again; this time going slower and driving close to the curb like he was looking for a house number. After writing the license number down on a pad on his lap, he continued going slow to the end of the corner, then turned left to head home.
Step one was complete, but he needed to learn much more about the man to come up with a valid plan. The most direct way would be to walk up on the porch, ring the door bell and shoot him when the door opened. But this was strange territory and the chance of being seen, followed, and caught was too great. It had to be done in a way to reduce risk while guaranteeing a fatal hit. O’Neil also had to suffer as much as Jimmy did after having steel spikes plunged into his body. He had laid there while loss of blood, pain, and shock did their grisly work. Once begun the end solution must be irrevocable.
The next morning after breakfast he told his Mom not to expect him for supper for the next few weeks; he said he was taking some time off to revisit the places where he and Jimmy used to hang out when they were growing up.
Instead he began to follow O’Neil seven days a week. O’Neil’s work week routine was pretty regimented. Go to work, stop for a few beers, and then go home; unless he needed to stop by the grocery store or run some other errands. The first Saturday he changed his routine after work and drove home to clean up and change clothes. Then, dressed in jeans and a cowboy shirt, O’Neil drove twenty miles west out past Geneva. The black truck passed through the major suburbs into a less densely populated area to a road house. A truck stop was across the two lane road in front of the bar. The main entrance to the truck stop was on the opposite side fronting on a four lane highway.
The bar was run down and looked like a rough joint. About thirty Harleys were parked out front with people drinking and playing grab ass in the parking lot. These weren’t clean new stock bikes, but mostly older choppers. The rest of the lot was full of cars and pickup trucks. Clay parked across the lot from O’Neil and waited for the red headed stranger to get inside. He paid the four dollars cover charge as he entered the bar. At the bar he ordered a beer before he found space to stand along the front wall by stacks of beer cases. The music was hard rock and loud. As with most bars of its type the smoke was so thick he didn’t need to light up to get lung cancer. Across the room O’Neil was at a table with three couples. From time to time he would go ask a woman to dance; some would, most refused him. At first it was hard not to stare. Soon Clay gradually figured out how to scan the room, but still be aware of what O’Neil was doing.
Watching Jimmy’s killer roam around the bar sharpened Clay’s resolve to see his friend’s murder avenged. The man was thin and six feet three inches tall. Unruly red hair was parted on the right side was cut about three inches at its longest. A long thin nose protruded from angular facial features amid pronounced high cheek bones. The man’s lips outlined a wide mouth highlighting yellowish crooked teeth. He wore Levis and a long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms attached to large but thin hands. Overall, O’Neil exuded a rough and cocky attitude matching his appearance.
By a little past eleven thirty the three couples had left. O’Neil moved to a bar stool. Clay's position was about twenty feet from the door He continued to sip his drink slowly while talking to anybody who seemed to want to talk. At a little after midnight O’Neil picked up his cigarettes and change after sliding off the bar stool. Clay sat his half full beer bottle on the top beer case and headed out the door to his car. When O’Neil left the parking lot Clay followed him at a good distance. O’Neil drove five MPH over the speed limit and went straight to his house. Clay called it a night too and went home. The following Sunday morning O’Neil left the house an hour before noon to drive to another house in Des Plains. Sunday dinner with the family he guessed.
The following week mimicked the previous routine with Clay ending up at the biker roadhouse again on Saturday night. The only major change had been when O’Neil went to the bar after work on Friday night and stayed until eleven. Then he picked up a hooker on the street before disappearing into a cheap motel for half an hour. Apparently there were no steady girl friends in his life; hence he was paying for sex. He felt he knew O’Neil’s routine enough to put a loose plan together.
Sunday morning Clay again drove the route from the roadhouse. He had noticed an interesting spot at night that needed to be checked out in daylight. A highway overpass had been built several years earlier over a two lane highway at a spot about six miles from O’Neil’s house. When the state built the overpass the engineers had allowed for future growth by building an additional outside lane on each side of the highway. The paving on the additional lanes looked to be about a thousand feet long on each side of the overpass. They abruptly blended back into the single lane at each end. An inside shoulder lane ran the entire length of the outside lanes. Supports for the overhead highway extended about four feet into the shoulder lane. Although he didn’t have any experience in this kind of thing to rely on he thought the plan he was developing would work.
The next stop took him almost nine miles from the overpass to an abandoned quarry site. He and Jimmy had spent many days there from the time they were old enough to drive. They had ridden their dirt bikes around the site and later shot target practice and caught fish down in the bottom of the open pit quarry. After parking on the shoulder of the highway he climbed over the double swing gate. It was a standard metal farm gate secured with a heavy chain and padlock. The road from the gate was just over fifty feet from the wall of the pit. Before the drop off a rusty chain link fence ran around the edge of the deep open pit mine. The gravel road was unused and rutted from the run off of many years of rain and snow melts. About a quarter of a mile from the highway the gravel road ran ten feet higher than the edge of the pit. The ground sloped gently through small saplings and brush to the protective chain link fence. The location was above the solid rock portion at the bottom of the pit. The road continued for half a mile to the main mechanical equipment area. Abandoned crushers, sorters, conveyers, and such sat there in rusty silence. The road continued on another quarter mile to an opposite entrance on a parallel highway.
He had seen enough and decided to put his plan into action the following Saturday night.
Monday through Friday he reviewed the plan again and again. He drew detailed sketches of the locations and identified pertinent features he would use or avoid. While in his last two years of high school he had worked part time at a plant nursery to pay for a car, car expenses, and spending money. The nursery had a big duel wheel flat bed truck that would be perfect. The business closed at five on Saturday as did most of the other commercial businesses across from it. He knew the layout, knew how to operate all the equipment, and knew where the keys were left in the office. He regretted involving the nursery owners. They were an honest, hard working family who had treated him right.
Jimmy had a 250 cc. Kawasaki dirt bike in the garage. It had been bought as a wrecked basket case. They had rebuilt the engine completely. It was bought without papers and couldn't be licensed for the highway. Jimmy hadn’t gotten around to repainting the bike so it was plain and inconspicuous. A black helmet with small silver striping was hanging on the handlebar. Nothing bright or flashy. With what was found at Jimmy’s house in addition to items from his house and articles bought at re-sale shops in adjoining towns he was ready.
Saturday evening at eight o’clock he entered the nursery on the dirt bike from the access road at the rear of the plant fields. The bike was running great; it wouldn’t be any problem. Driving through the fields of small deciduous and conifer trees he approached the planting and equipment sheds. He knew the flatbed truck was running because he had made several trips by the business during the week to see if it had been moved. The glass in the back door of the office was broken to gain entry. In the unlit gloomy office he picked out keys to the truck and a fork truck hanging on a key board in a hallway.
Two pallets of sod were loaded on the flat bed with the fork truck to give the truck added weight. The dirt bike was loaded onto the truck, tied down, and the truck driven out the back way. He passed through the tree acreage to the blacktop road at the previously entered gate. So far, so good, Clay said to himself.
The trip to the quarry took thirty five minutes in the big diesel. It had fair pick up and could run better than eighty mile an hour.
At the quarry he cut the chain on the gate with bolt cutters and after driving the truck through draped the chain back around the gate. At a spot picked out previously the dirt bike was unloaded and hidden in the brush along with items in a cardboard box. A section of the chain link fence was cut on one side with bolt cutters and dragged back to the next post creating a ten foot wide opening. The truck was turned around, driven back to the gate and parked along the highway while the chain was again fixed to look like the gate was locked.
It was close to ten thirty when he arrived at the roadhouse. He drove through the parking lot, located the black Chevy, and verified the license plate number. Across the highway he parked at the back side of the truck stop in the meager shadows cast by the lights at the fuel pumps. It was much better lit than he would have preferred.
Then the long wait began. The truck was high enough to afford a clear view of the entrance at the front of the roadhouse. The wait was torturous. He felt the same sick feeling starting in his stomach he’d experienced several months ago after the episode at a similar joint.
He thought back to when he had joined the Cub Scouts and met Jimmy for the first time; they were both seven years old. As they grew older both went to the same junior and senior high schools. Finally his parents had given up trying to keep them apart. Neither of them could condone being associated with Tony Giliano and his family; a man frequently linked to criminal activities by the newspapers. He remembered how early on his mother was especially adamant about his staying away from Jimmy.
Tony owned a farm west of Chicago where he would take both boys for hunting, fishing, and camping. When he and Jimmy turned sixteen both passed their drivers license exams. Tony and Anna gave Jimmy a new 1965 Chevy Chevelle Super Sport convertible for his birthday. Sixteen years old with a new red convertible with a white top. Man that was something. Clay spoke softly, “I can’t believe you’re gone Jimmy.”
The evening temperature was in the upper sixties with a light breeze blowing. Both windows were rolled down to catch the occasional breeze. His clothing was all items purchased during the past week at resale shops or yard sales. All would be disposed of later before he went home. The shotgun was loaded. It was wrapped in used dark blue towels and hidden behind the seat. The short barrel revolver was in his right jacket pocket. Several M-80 fire crackers were in the left jacket pocket with a cigarette lighter. The other items were setting in the passenger seat in a canvas bag with a carrying strap. Music from the truck radio was helping to keep him calm; it was the “Oldies but Goodies” country western station. Crying in your beer lyrics was appropriate to the job. His hands were sweaty, not just due to anticipation, but because of the leather gloves being used to prevent leaving finger prints. His greatest concern was O’Neil changing his routine or picking up a woman. A thermos bottle full of water was for sipping, but an effort had to be made not to drink too much. He snickered to himself as a thought sped through his mind; he imagined he was ready to shoot O’Neil and had to tell him, wait a minute I have to pee.
People had been coming and going from the bar all evening, but finally the figure he was waiting for headed toward the black truck. He was alone; thank God he had not been able to pick up one of the pigs at the Hog House. The time was one-o-six a.m. The Diesel engine roared to life at the same time O’Neil was getting in his truck When O’Neil started the Chevy and turned on the headlights Clay was already steering the flatbed out onto the highway. The big truck came up to fifty easily and was held there until O’Neil caught up with him and passed. There were several stop lights on the route and timing would be crucial to staying close to the Chevy. Traffic was light on the two lane road in the early morning hours. As the first stop light came into view he pulled the flatbed closer to the pick-up, just catching the red light as he sped through. The big truck slowed until there was at least a hundred and fifty feet between them again. Clay noticed his breathing had quickened and his skin had a clammy feeling in addition to the rumbling going on in his stomach. They had green lights the rest of the way and soon were approaching his chosen spot. Only two cars had passed them in the opposite lane.
In the distance he could see the orange tinted light cast from the fixtures at the overpass. No vehicle lights were in sight behind him; a car coming from the opposite direction was just clearing the overpass. The big truck began to close the distance. By the time they were at the start of the extra lanes it had momentum and speed to go around. The pick-up stayed in the left lane as Clay took the right. The flatbed was along side the pick-up several hundred feet from the overpass.
At what he judged and prayed to be the right moment, he turned the steering wheel sharply to the left hitting the pick-up broadside. The impact forced the black truck into the guard rail. He later would recall the loud screeching from metal scraping and tearing as they hurled along the shoulder; both drivers were standing on the brakes trying to bring their vehicles to a stop. The center support under the overpass was approaching at unimaginable speed even as they slowed with every foot. When the pick-up hit the concrete support it stopped instantly. The front left bumper, fender and grill were pushed back at least two feet. Because of the sudden impact the rear of the pick-up was forced to the right against the flatbed. The big truck continued another three feet before it came to a stop.
The diesel engine died and was quickly restarted. No vehicles were visible in front or behind so he left the rubber Halloween mask on the seat. Before opening the door he grabbed the canvas bag and then jumped out of the truck onto the concrete pier. O’Neil was trapped in the cab with the guardrail on one side and the bigger truck bed against the passenger door. Although O’Neil had been drinking he appeared to comprehend what was happening. Clay removed the pistol from his pocket, put one foot out near the center of the pickup's hood and leaned forward. When Jerry O’Neil saw the gun he sensed the wreck was not just an accident. Clay elevated the gun to clear the dashboard before putting three rounds into O’Neil’s crotch and stomach. He stepped off the hood and back on to the concrete support base. The guardrail was crossed to reach the drivers side of O’Neil’s truck. Raising the gun again he shot the man in the left shoulder to make certain he couldn’t pull himself through the open window. The trapped man was yelling curse words at him but his facial expression showed fear.
O’Neil was in pain from injuries caused by the wreck as well as the bullets he had taken but was fully aware of his position. He looked to be confused and disoriented in addition to the effects of the drinks he'd consumed earlier.
A small two pound sledge hammer broke the rear glass behind the driver. A half gallon jar was removed from the canvas bag and half of the gasoline and diesel mixture was poured down O’Neil’s back before the remainder was slowly poured over his head and left shoulder. O'Neil was yelling and swatting at the jar as liquid poured out. The jar, wood handled hammer and canvas bag were thrown into the cab.
When O'Neil smelled the gasoline vapors a scream formed in his throat; a look of pure agony filled his face. He watched as Clay stepped to the front of the driver’s door, removed the lighter and one of the M-80 firecrackers from his pocket; O’Neil was screaming, “No! Noooo! What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?”
Before lighting the fuse on the firecracker Clay looked him in the eyes while speaking calmly, “This is for Jimmy Giliano.”
“Giliano? He was an accident. You can’t do this to me because of him.”
“Jimmy was my friend. He didn’t deserve to die the way you killed him. You didn’t have the guts to fight him fairly so you attacked him from behind.”
“Then we're alike” screamed O’Neil. “There's no difference in what I did and what you’re doing? You’re nothing but a damn cowardly assassin. Let me get healed up and I’ll fight you one on one, fair and square.”
Clay’s lips formed a cruel smile as he replied, “Go to hell Asshole.” As he turned the wheel on the lighter he said, “I can’t fight a dead man and you are a dead man.”
It was obvious O’Neil was coherent and understood what was said by the terrified look on his face as he screamed for help. As Clay moved past the broken rear window he tossed the lit firecracker toward the opening. Flames instantly erupted from the shattered opening and both front windows as he was moving toward the back of the pick-up. O’Neil had been screaming insanely since Clay spoke to him. Suddenly he was silent as the smoke and flames seared his lungs.
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